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thedeal-if · 10 months

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How do ROs react if they realize they are falling in love with MC?

Anon they're all such a trainwreck 😢

These all depend on the romance so I'll try to be as general as possible 👁️ sorry if it ended up kinda short

It's nearly 2am sorry if there are mistakes

Dante accepts this new turn of events so naturally that it's almost scary, like he was always ready for the faint traces of affection to burn with the intensity of love. Labeling every little detail of his life is, to Dante, time-consuming and constricting. Calling it love now doesn't make his emotions before the realization any less strong.

Lilith finds, in a very instinctual way, that lust and affection are tightly woven together like the two ends of a ribbon. Love is a bomb that comes too quickly and leaves too little time for damage control, and Lilith is too lost—she doesn't feel like herself—when, like a parasite, the love swallows all the lust and thrusts itself to the number one of her list of priorities.

To Josh, it's a duality. On the one hand, it's such a surprise it leaves him reeling, struggling to come to terms with the shame of it— he was never supposed to paint friendship as he selfishly wishes to. On the other hand, Josh does come to see that maybe this is a reality that has always been, or that was always meant to be— he accepts that so readily, covets it preciously. It all depends on the day.

Tuck away, fill all cabinets, dust off your problems, and hide the broken glass under couches and carpets. Do that for years and it all eventually blows up in your face, like it does Villanelle. Reality is not entirely shoved in her face, it's hiding everywhere around her, it's leaking from the walls until she's forced to accept it. Villanelle then, like a revelation, sees a light: all the warm and soft emotions blooming in her chest like roses.

It's not quite the fact that the ice has melted, but that Victor acknowledges the now-lukewarm water that is his disposition, and the way it's prone to heating without ever being clouded by lust. He finds himself fighting off smiles—fighting off confusion, the very human initial repression that follows an uncertain moment or feeling.

Aliyah snorts in self-deprecation, mumbles a very descriptive—but poorly eloquent—“Well shit,” and she plans, weaves her web to adapt and survive, because that's what she does best. That's all Aliyah has ever done. She feels the threads wrapping around her throat, and she drowns in it, soaks all fuzzy human feelings in the negativity of cruel reality.

Nathan entertains the idea like a lazy dance, swaying between acceptance and denial, building up the pieces and memories, hoping—hoping, praying, hoping—to be wrong. Until he comes to terms with the fact that he's shamelessly, utterly, and hopelessly in love.

Eden feels the thought slam into her mind like a traffic accident: sudden, brutally unavoidable, life-changing. She is hit by it in an almost painful way. And everything changes. It always does. She thinks, with finality, “So this is love.”

#the deal if #the deal #inferno #ask #ros #dante #lilith #josh #villanelle #victor #aliyah #nathan #eden #scenario

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nichenarratives · 8 months

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Hurricane Heller 3

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton

last | first | next

[TW: Minor character death, depictions of violence, period typical antisemitism]

3. Personal Development

It's a clammy night in their terraced house, the worst kind of night. Mordecai, Esther and Rose have been sleeping, the girls still sharing a bed while he has moved into the loft room for privacy. It was far hotter in the rafters than his old room, but having personal space made up for it, beyond the fact you could hear every step on the hard wooden stairs, which often woke the lad early.

Tonight, he's woken not by footsteps or creaking boards, but a soft song, one he recognises. He lays there and listens to his mother's hushed singing for a few minutes, a tune she used to sing to him and Esther when they were afraid of the summer storms as kittens, almost dozing back off. At least, until his ear catches a struggling, rasping breath, a watery cough of phlegm, and a whimper. Hannah.

Careful to be quiet, he creeps from his room and finds his sisters already peering through the banisters on the second floor. Esther glances at him, her eyes wet, then back down into the stairwell. Emerald eyes follow to where their mother sits on the bottom step in just her slip, rocking their infant sister to the rhythm of her song. Hannah looks tired, small hands pulled to her chest and eyes barely open, her breaths too shallow and face too pale, staring up at their mother.

As she finishes the song, she strokes Hannah's cheek with the back of her hand. "It's okay," their mother tells the baby, her voice cracking, a gentle sob as the infant's eyes flutter closed. "Rest now, oytserl. Your father is waiting to greet you."

Hannah would never open her eyes again. She dies three weeks before Mordecai's bar mitzvah.

The young tom feels culpability for Hannah's death. Could it have been avoided if he'd been more proactive, demanding better wages earlier? Should he have gotten a paper route in addition to his profession, just to bolster the funds? While his mother sobs on the stairs, clutching her baby's body to her chest, Mordecai obsessively runs scenarios and calculations, trying to find something he could have done to save his sister from a slow and suffocating end.

He's near madness when Esther sits beside him on the bed and peers at his scribbled notes, all numbers, numerators and denominators that only made sense to their architect. She sniffles, wiped her nose on a sleeve, then simply leans against him. In his right mind, he'd recoil from her the second bodily fluids got involved, but in that moment, he leans into her warmth and finally lays down his pen, the two eldest children silent in their grief together.

Hannah is buried on Monday, two weeks later, the week of his Sabbath.

Mordecai has technically been a man, both in age in action, for months by the time then. While it isn't unusual in their congregation to delay the ceremony for a variety of reasons, his mother's was pure prudence; barely two years his junior and due her bat mitzvah less than six months later on her twelfth birthday, Esther's coming of age created the need for another ceremony and celebration they simply can't afford. It makes sense to combine the two events.

While Esther is upset she won't get an entire celebration in her name come her birthday, Mordecai truly doesn't care; he's been accepting the consequences of his actions for two years, a religious ceremony won't change that. With barely the time to study Hebrew and practice his maftir section of the aliyah, he's participating almost solely for his traditional mother, who has been excitedly planning a shindig since he got his first paycheck.

Now it's Wednesday and he walks home in the early hours, prayer book in hand and those same few words flowing from pale lips, brows knit in deep concentration. He might not care for the ceremony, but he certainly won't make a fool of himself or his mother in the midst of it. This means every waking second he's not preoccupied with work or sleep, he's practicing, reciting or learning.

Perhaps if he weren't so exhausted from working eighteen hour days, cramming Hebrew classes into lunch hours and repeatedly reciting his maftir for the coming Sabbath, he'd have seen the punch coming. Even if he had seen it coming though, Mordecai is uncomfortably aware he wouldn't have been able to dodge or fight back anyway. He simply doesn't have experience with physical combat.

As luck and perhaps some awareness of his surroundings - a shift of feet and clack of loafers on cobbles that were not his own - would have it, he looks up just in time to avoid his nose taking the brunt of the uppercut. The fist connects with his muzzle instead, a brutal thump and searing pain through his lip, snapping his head back, taking Mordecai off his feet and abruptly onto his rear, the momentum bringing the back of his head down into the walkway with a crack.

Dazed and pained, Mordecai blinks up at the smoggy black sky sluggishly, arms splayed uselessly around by head. His mouth is on fire, his head feels like it exploded, and his back aches from the sudden fall onto hard stone.

Just as his thoughts begin to clear and the black spots fade from view, rough hangs grab his biceps and hoist him back to his feet, depositing him on unstable legs. All the movement makes his head throb and Mordecai squints at a fuzzy shape looming over him - only vaguely registering he's lost his glasses - before having his arms unceremoniously pulled behind his back empties his mind of logical thought and he hisses through grit teeth.

Every congregation has a story; aunt, uncle, sibling, parent, beaten and arrested for being Jewish in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The initial charges were always minor, often fabricated on the spot, but once you fell into the custody of the New York Police Department it would escalate to some federal crime the bigwigs wanted solved. A beloved family member, turned into a statistic, all for their beliefs.

But they were stories, weren't they? Mordecai never thought it would happen to anyone he knew, let alone himself. As he awaits the cold click of cuffs around his wrists and his rights - the few he's permitted - read aloud, he berates himself for walking around with a prayer book, as obviously as wearing a kippah beyond the synagogue doors.

A calloused hand snags his chin and forces him to focus on the man before him, even though Mordecai can only see an interesting mixture of poorly defined features by squinting at them. "Next time ya get some big ideas, you pass 'em on to me." Even through a headache, Jimbo's poorly enunciated English is recognisable. He then pinches the tom's chin so tight, Mordecai gasps. "Go over my head again, a fat lip'll be the least of your problems, kike."

A second later and he's shoved onto the cobbles along with his discarded prayer book, rough stone scratching up hands as they break his fall. Mordecai stays there a long moment, catching his breath and allowing his heart rate to slow down, palms stinging in time with his throbbing head. Tentatively, he brings the back of a hand to his mouth and wipes his lip, breath shaking as it comes away warm and wet, the black fur coated in a thin sheen of fresh blood.

It might not have been the police, but he's still shaking as he feels blindly around for his pince nez. Thankfully not broken, he places them back on, gathers up his books and gets to his feet. He doesn't go home though, too afraid they'll follow to enact further retribution, if they found his family. Instead, Mordecai shelters under the awning of a nearby communal building, knees pulled to his chest and tail curled around his calves, waiting for morning just to be sure his assailants have left.

There, after years of carefully masking his weaker emotions, alone with his thoughts and fears, the mask finally slips.

Once the tears start, it's difficult to stop them. Every tragedy and hardship he's endured in his lifetime - the sudden loss of his father, the slow decline of his sister, the house falling apart around them, the hatred and scorn simply for who he was born as and what his family believes, his very Jewish name - all of it floods out of his saturated adolescent body and soaks into his sleeves, right through to his fur beneath.

He feels as far from an adult as he's ever been then, lost in self pity and despair. By the time the tears dry up, the sun is peering through the fog as a new day dawns. Mordecai's lip has swollen up, the back of his head is matted with a thick clot of blood and his hands feel tight and painful to bend. It's a chore to make himself get up, but he does so knowing his mother would be beside herself with worry if he wasn't home when she got up to prepare breakfast.

Mordecai slips inside the house silently. Leaving his shoes in the hall, he makes straight for the bathroom at the rear of the first floor and gets to work disguising last night's attack; he suds up his head first, flinching as he kneads soap into the tender spot to wash away the blood and disinfect the cut at once. Once content the water is running clear, he pats the spot dry carefully, then turns his attention to his face.

The relatively small lip wound has swelled almost comically, creating a gumball-sized, raised bump on his lower lip. He's not going to be able to disguise or hide it, so he decides on a cover story instead; he tripped and went to the hospital, which took most of the night to process and discharge him with minor abrasions on his hands and face. Work paid, he'll say, to ease his mother's concerns, then avoid any additional questions until leaving for work.

With a story prepared and looking presentable, the adolescent cat gets ready for work once again, dressing, flattening his hair, affixing his tie. With the routine comes a sense of control, a return of his sensibilities and an irrational anger aimed primarily inwards; he chose to follow a dangerous line of work, and yet is woefully unprepared to deal with the unsavory characters with whom he interacts daily, as if they would act like normal, rational people.

Mordecai frowns at his reflection as he knots his tie, the motion slow and thoughtful. If anything happens to him, his entire family will suffer. Income vanished, his mother and sisters will have to fend for themselves, and he won't be there to prevent the worst from descending on them. It's an outcome he won't permit while he lives, and will make damn sure he's not going anywhere anytime soon.

With that logic in mind, he doesn't have to think twice; the tuxedo delays heading down for breakfast to open the top drawer of his desk and extract the family's only heirloom. A silver letter opener, the tip sharp enough to draw blood with the lightest of pressure, rarely used to preserve its keen edge. The tom removes it from the leather sheath and holds it up to inspect it in light, then tucks it into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket.

I was fortunate such naivety wasn't my undoing. Glancing at his reflection one last time, Mordecai is pleased the cat that glares back doesn't appear scared. He tilts his chin up and adjusts his shirt cuffs, confidence restored. It will not happen again.

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy cats #lackadaisy mordecai #mordecai heller #fanfiction #no beta we die like atlas may #fanfic #niche narratives #hurricane heller #hurricane heller chapter 3 #humdinger #period typical antisemitism #1920s

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bunnyanqel · 3 months

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A Simple Favor (2)

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Summary: Aliyah agrees to play D&D if only for Eddie.

Warnings: nsfw content, MDNI, 18+, a dash of angst, oral sex, vaginal fingering, profanity, mentions of drug use

The Hellfire Room was dim, cast in a soft red glow from whatever lights Eddie and his friends had set up when Aliyah showed up.

Her heart was hammering as she approached the long table set up in front of an intricate throne, and the squeak of her sneakers were the only noise that signified her entrance.

One of the boys turned to her. She recognized him as Jeff Tanner, a boy in one of her classes, and managed a smile as he rose and intercepted her.

“Jeff, right?” she said by a mean of greeting.

Broad-shouldered and solidly-built, he was one of the few Black kids in school, and from what she recalled, he was level-headed.

She liked him immensely.

“Yeah. Aliyah, right?”

Before either could say more, a strong, deep voice interrupted them. “So you’re the one those two brats recruited to fill Sinclair’s spot, huh?”

Jeff returned to his position, and Aliyah almost lost her breath at the sight of Eddie, up close and personal, in the flesh. Her memory and the quick glances she’d cast hadn’t done him justice. At all.

His hair was just as dark but his curls were frizzier, messier up close, and she hadn’t accounted for the white brunette’s pink, pink mouth that was thinned into a serious line right now. Her eyesight hadn’t caught the long fringe of the eyelashes that bracketed rich-brown puppy-dog eyes.

She’d never seen him without the denim vest that he wore every day, like an amor against all sneering, close-minded comments, and the sight of his bare forearms, the hair, the tattoos, the silver bracelet on one wrist was more than enough to make her stomach clench. And her clit pulse.

“You got a problem with me?” she asked, sounding braver than she felt, and ignored how her pulse went haywire in her throat as his gaze swept over her from head to toe.

Her skin tightened with goosebumps as she stood there, frozen under his intense inspection. Her rock-hard nipples pushed against the fabric of her top, and the slight reddening of his face told her saw it.

“I don’t know yet.” He leaned back, any flash of embarrassment gone, his face a cool, intimidating mask. After a minute, he leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. “This isn’t Girl Scouts, you know.”

“Holy fuck. You don’t say?” The words escaped before she could reign them back in, and her pulse throbbed in her ears as she waited for his reply.

“One shot,” he said finally, his expression grave, his eyes serious as she’d ever seen them. “If she messes this shit up, it’s on your heads.” He tossed the words at Mike and Dustin, the former seeming terrified while the latter rolled his eyes.

The session went amazing.

She’d never had so much fun, never smiled so big or laughed so loudly that her throat was sore at the end. All because of the DM.

Eddie’s enthusiasm was infectious, his flair for dramatics only adding to the tension of his brilliant story-telling. It seemed like that large-than-life persona he displayed in the cafeteria so often translated well to D&D.

“So what’s your verdict, dungeon master?” she asked, fighting keep her voice steady and her eyes not goo-gooey at him. “Did I earn my favor?”

“Favor?” He quirked an eyebrow at her, dragging his attention away from packing up things to focus it solely on her.

Her heart sputtered pathetically in her chest at his singular attention, and she squeezed her hands into fists against the way her mind screamed all sorts of delicious, dirty things. It zeroed in on the well-manicured fingernails and those fingers that would no doubt feel so good inside of her pussy. It conjured the image of his mouth wrapped around one of her dark nipples, sucking.

Torture. She was being fucking tormented by her own goddamn mind, and she wouldn’t stop it for a minute. Somewhere she knew her brain was only cataloging every tiny detail about him for fantasy fodder, since she’d doubtlessly never get this close to him again. Close enough to smell the body spray he used—Axe.

If she ever thought about his smell, she’d have guessed marijuana or something. But this suited him. It was some Axe body wash and, beneath it, the aroma or marijuana that seemed to cling to him no matter what. Cling to his hair, his clothes.

Oh dear, she was so, so gone for him. If he’d asked her to crawl to him, she would’ve. If he asked her to bark like a dog, she would. She’d have rubbed her pussy all over his leg if he asked. Pathetic, really. This obsession and consuming desire for him.

The sound of metal on wood made her jolt back to reality, to a pair of dark eyes that watched her interestedly, an expectant expression on his face.

“I filled in for Lucas, so you owe me a favor, Eddie,” she managed to croak once she gathered enough moisture in her mouth to speak.

He didn’t reply immediately and instead focused on cleaning up. It wasn’t until everything had been cleared off and the players had broken into groups that he replied, his voice hard, a complete contrast to the energetic man he’d been for almost four hours straight. Like with her simple remark, she’d sucked all of the joy out of him.

He fixed her with a blank stare before he blinked it away and nodded to himself. “You want drugs, right?”

That might’ve been easier. She deliberated for a few seconds, wondering if he’d laugh her out the door if she voiced her real request, and gathered every single bit of courage in her body.

“A date,” she bit out finally. Blurted out, really, complete with the crack of her voice and the wobble of her pierced bottom lip. “I—I want a date.” She inhaled. Tasted the dry, stale air that burned going down her throat. “With you. That’s—that’s all I want, Eddie.”

He froze then, just for a moment, and she thought she’d just made the biggest mistake. Mortification and angry embarrassment made themselves a nest in her chest, and she began to back peddle, to shrink back. To deny it, laugh it off, but he didn’t let her.

He gave her an appraising, quick look that made her mouth dry.

“Sure, sure,” he muttered.

The big, stupid, insipid, lovesick smile that spread across her face was wholly against her will.

Christ on a cracker, she was gone.

#eddie munson smut #bunny's writing #my writing #bunny writes

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dear-indies · 1 month

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so i've been looking around for awhile and havent come up with much! i'm looking for a fem fc whos in her 20s and is also a model -- but doesnt have the " typical " model build. pref. someone who's has a more athletic ? build ? but also open to body diversity in general !!! pref woc !! tysm < 3

Jade Cargill (1992) Afro Jamaican.

Red Velvet (1992) African-American.

Kiara Marshall (1992/3) African-American - is an amputee.

Jordan Alexander (1993) German, Irish, African-American - has spoken up for Palestine!

Arsema Thomas (1994) Nigerian / Ethiopian - has spoken up for Palestine!

Aliyah (1994) Syrian and Iraqi.

Kiera Hogan (1994) African-American.

Willow Nightingale (1994) African-American.

Ryan Destiny (1995) African-American.

Megan Thee Stallion (1995) African-American - is bisexual.

Lyric Mariah (1995/6) African-American - is an amputee.

Ayo Edebiri (1995) Yoruba Nigerian / Barbadian - is queer.

Tati Gabrielle (!996) African-American 1/4 Korean.

Ajiona Alexus (1996) African-American.

Yumi Nu (1996) Japanese / Dutch.

Naiomi Glasses (1996/97) Navajo.

UraN / luv02_uran (1997) Japanese.

Lori Harvey (1997) African-American.

Riho (1997) Japanese.

Alaqua Cox (1997) Menominee and Mohican - is deaf and an amputee.

Joanna Pincerato (1998) Mexican, Syrian, Swedish and Italian - has spoken up for Palestine!

Samara Joy (1999) African-American - has spoken up for Palestine!

Aaron Rose Philip (2001) Afro-Antiguan - is a trans woman who has cerebral palsy - has spoken up for Palestine!

Trying to find muscular women in this economy? Wrestlers to the rescue! Here are some suggestions though including disabled and fat women!

#fc help #rph #rpc

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wesstars · 7 months

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🦉 ANON EXPLAINS!!!

OK SO BASICALLY!!!

im a regular on aliyahs lives right??

and theres this one guy - david, who gifts her an absurd amount of the tiktok live roses every time...

so me and david are like bffs (we're mutuals on tiktok and i tiktok message him a lot)

and since im sick i slept thru a few lives ppl were talking abt how i was missing in aliyahs chat

and she said "{my name} isn't here? then who's gonna tell david to get a grip?"

so i'm basically like best friends with aliyah ortega (duh)

-🦉

THE STORY HAS BEEN RELEASED EVERYONE

the tiktok live culture is so interesting, there are regulars and everything I love it

get well soon cuz david and aliyah need you LMAO

#asks #🦉

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thegoddessofwwe · 9 months

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THE MOST REQUESTED;

MALES

✧ ADAM PAGE ✧ AJ STYLES ✧ AKIRA ✧ ALEX COLON ✧ ANTHONY HENRY ✧ BARON CORBIN ✧ BOBBY BEVERLY ✧ BRANDON KIRK ✧ BRYAN DANIELSON ✧ BUDDY MATTHEWS ✧ CARMELO HAYES ✧ CM PUNK ✧ CODY RHODES ✧ DAMIAN PRIEST ✧ EDDIE KINGSTON ✧ ERIC RYAN ✧ FINN BALOR ✧ HOOK ✧ JAY WHITE ✧ JEY USO ✧ JIMMY USO ✧ JOEY JANELA ✧ JON MOXLEY ✧ JORDAN OLIVER ✧ JUNGLE BOY ✧ KENNY OMEGA ✧ KEVIN OWENS ✧ MALAKAI BLACK ✧ MATT CARDONA ✧ MJF ✧ MYRON REED ✧ PETE DUNNE ✧ RICKEY SHANE PAGE ✧ SETH ROLLINS ✧ SWERVE STRICKLAND ✧ TREY MIGUEL ✧ WARDLOW ✧ WES LEE ✧ THE YOUNG BUCKS ✧ ZACHARY WENTZ

FEMALES

✧ ALEXA BLISS ✧ ALIYAH ✧ ANNA JAY ✧ BAYLEY ✧ BECKY LYNCH ✧ BIANCA BELAIR ✧ CANDICE LERAE ✧ CHARLOTTE FLAIR ✧ INDI HARTWELL ✧ IYO SKYE ✧ JADE CARGILL ✧ MANDY ROSE ✧ MERCEDES MONE ✧ RAQUEL GONZALEZ ✧ ROSEMARY ✧ ROXANNE PEREZ ✧ SKYE BLUE ✧ SONYA DEVILLE ✧ TAY CONTI ✧ THE BUNNY (AKA ALLIE) ✧ THUNDER ROSA ✧ TONI STORM ✧ ZELINA VEGA

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cowabunga-doll · 1 year

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All 4-1 Challenge: Romance 💝💐

Here we have it, this is my post entry for the TMNT All 4-1 Challenge hosted by the lovelies @turtle-babe83 @thelaundrybitch @leosgirl82 @nittleboo @tmnt-tychou and @post-apocalyptic-daydream

For the “Romance” challenge, i decided to do the “Pocky Game” scenario because i wanted to do a cute scenario between Leo and Aliyah where he wanted to go for a kiss using the pocky pocky in his mouth. (And i was pretty happy how it turned out ☺️☺️) I hope you guys like it!!

Leo/Tmnt (c) Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird

Aliyah Rose and Fanart (c) @cowabunga-doll (me)

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tuituipupu · 12 days

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shuffle your favorite playlist and post the first five songs that come up. then copy/paste this ask to your favorite mutuals <3 (no pressure ofc)

hey! thank you so much oh my gosh 🥹🤲💖

anything like me - poppy

2. it girl - aliyah's interlude

3. hai mai visto piangere un cowboy? - rose villain

4. espresso - sabrina carpenter

5. talata - mahmood

#asks #nelsonakis

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fauville · 2 months

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welcome to my interactive fiction side blog! my main is @juniemoe. i will follow & like from there.

this blog is 18+ only.

vilna • 20s • she/they/he • ace lesbian

links: main blog: @juniemoe • oc blog: @lesbian-solas • ao3 • pinterest • divider credit

writing tag: #vilna writes

original characters:

♥︎ the wayhaven chronicles:

vesper graves ♡ ava

charlotte langford ♡ nate

kitty lamb ♡ morgan

emmeline dahl ♡ farah

dimitri barkov ♡ love triangle (adam & nate)

♥︎ mind blind:

teddy wiseman ♡ gray

fawn wiseman ♡ kent & sally

ginny wiseman ♡ rosy

♥︎ infamous:

nikita rose ♡ orion

ruthie jones♡ seven

fernweh saga:

kore agnes ♡ james & mal

keeper of the sun and moon:

aisling templeman ♡ leon

basil emerson ♡ kol

shepherds of haven:

dahlia valendil ♡ blade

isidore wildegarde ♡ trouble

the exile:

caspian kalesko ♡ sabir

misc games:

minnie romero (speaker) ♡ sebastian

elisabet rosenberg (apartment 502) ♡ cal

aliyah (blood moon) ♡ marco

petra (thicker than) ♡ minjo

stella peg'asi (andromeda six) ♡ damon

luella scarlet (scarlet hollow) ♡ wayne

robin yeong (ct:os) ♡ rayaan

jesse mavis (scout) ♡ gage

multiverse:

kenji henris (ofna, infamous, blood moon) ♡ elliot, sebastian, sergi

lian chen (midnight hours, apartment 502) ♡ rylan, rainn

connie newman (the passenger, thicker than) ♡ jonny, iliya & nathan

fia robinson (body count, twc) ♡ charlie, love triangle (ava & nat)

#📌

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wwethennowforevertogether · 8 months

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~ Bienvenue sur ta Ligue simulée ~

Ce blog sera une fédération simulée sur la puissance montante du catch américain! La WWE ( World Wrestling Entertainment ! Créée en 1952. Sur cette fédération vous pourrez choisir uniquement des Superstars de la WWE ou bien d'anciens de la WWE. Je n'autoriserai que quatre superstars &/ou Womens par personnes. Je vous souhaite un excellent moment sur cette ligue virtuelle et vous souhaite bonnes chances pour votre carrière!

Attention, parmi vos 4 superstars vous devez au moins choisir deux superstar ou Womens sous contrat avec la WWE. Les deux roster seront réuni, c'est à dire qu'il n'y aura plus que un Show par semaine

WWE SUPERSHOW

General Manager: Sonya Deville

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jordanianroyals · 10 months

Photo

Official photo releasted on the occassion of Prince Hashim bin Al Hussein’s 42nd birthday, who was born on June 10, 1981 (8th of Shaban, 1401 Hijri) to the late King Hussein bin Talal and Queen Noor.

He is a 41st generation direct descendant of the Prophet Mohammad and the youngest brother of King Abdullah II. Prince Hashim completed his primary education in Amman and later graduated from high school in the United States in 1999.

In 1999, he attended the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in the United Kingdom, from which he graduated in 2000, commissioning as a second lieutenant in the Jordan Armed Forces-Arab Army. He received several awards, including an award for the best aggregate mark in his academic studies for non-British officers.

Prince Hashim graduated with distinction from Georgetown University’s Edmund A. Walsh School of Foreign Service on August 12, 2005, and subsequently completed his higher education in Quran studies at Balqa Applied University in Jordan, graduating on September 5, 2006. On December 1, 2014, he also earned a master’s degree in Defence Studies from King’s College London in the United Kingdom.

During Prince Hashim’s career in the military, he rose through the ranks of the Special Operations Command, serving in all three of its branches Special Forces, Counterterrorism, and the Rangers. In 2015, he was assigned command of the 61st Royal Rangers Battalion (Al Maghaweer) which is specialised in urban, desert, and advanced mountain operations. Prince Hashim’s last active military role was as adviser to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for Special Forces and Rapid Reaction Forces.

During his military career, Prince Hashim completed his Platoon Commanders’ Battle Course in the US at Fort Benning in 2007, where he achieved the best marks among international officers taking part in the training. In 2009, Prince Hashim participated in and successfully completed the Infantry Company Commanders Course in the UAE during which he achieved the highest level of academic excellence, and in 2014 he attended the Advanced Command and Staff College in England (ACSC17) and successfully completed it, earning his Post Staff College (Joint) PSCJ.

On January 12, 2017, a Royal Decree was issued appointing Prince Hashim as His Majesty’s Chief Royal Councillor, and he continued his service until his resignation in September 2020.

Prince Hashim has been sworn in as Regent on several occasions and accompanied King Abdullah II on several official functions.

Prince Hashim is the head of Alfaris International Horseback Archery Championship and is a proficient blade-smith. He also enjoys hiking.

His Royal Highness is fluent in Arabic and English. He studied Hebrew in university and he is a student of the Turkish language.

On January 6, 2006, Prince Hashim married Princess Fahdah and they have five children: Their Royal Highnesses Prince Al Hussein born in June 2015, Prince Al Hassan born in October 2019, Princess Haalah born in April 2007, Princess Raiyah born in July 2008 and Princess Aliyah born in November 2011.

#prince hashim #official portrait

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nichenarratives · 7 months

Text

Hurricane Heller 12

Entire works can be found on AO3 here.

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Authors note: this chapter personally offended me and had to be rewritten from scratch about 7 times. Please forgive that it's a little short, but I can't look at it anymore. I need to move on. Condolences willingly accepted.

12. Painful Reminiscing

It's been three weeks, but the interaction remains raw within the tom's memory; the very moment he became unwelcome in his mother's home, even as he continued to pay the bills. A slew of complicated and intertwined events, emotions and opinions all led up to that specific memory, all of which play on Mordecai's mind as he's forced to wait for a census on his future in the launderette back room, his body aching and begging for rest he simply won't permit amongst strangers.

The turning point was six months ago when, abandoned by Hashem as he begged for an alternative path, Mordecai had shed the last of his faith and fully assimilated into the Kosher Butcher. He'd excommunicated himself that Sunday, abandoning the pretense of Sabbath services and residual faith entirely knowing it would cause strife with his mother, but no longer willing to pretend for her peace of mind.

Despite this decision, he continues to return home for each Sunday meal, equal parts for the calming routine and to stay close to his beloved family. Time spent with Esther remains a joy while connecting with Rose continues to challenge his social capabilities, but it's the hours assisting mother in the kitchen that become exhaustive.

Presuming his severance from the synagogue is temporary once more, she speaks predominantly on responsibility and duty to his faith, lecturing her wayward eldest until he has to excuse himself for air multiple times an hour. What used to be a familiar ritual has become something he dreads every week, creating an unspoken rift between Mordecai and his mother with every passing Sabbath meal.

It only worsens, for her temper flares after months of excuses. Her queries and accusations become more pointed and demanding of explanation, yet Mordecai keeps his answers vague. He has no intention of dragging his family into the world in which he found himself, nor informing his mother of the blood staining the funds he provides. When cornered, he always has the same answers: work was demanding; there just wasn't time to attend; his other responsibilities needed to come first.

Every now and again, he would bring up the bills he paid or the new clothes his wage bought the girls, which would shut his mother down entirely. The peace never lasts more than a few weeks though. He walks on eggshells around her to avoid instigating another discussion, which often leaves the tuxedo irritable and anxious, disturbing his sleep for days.

Three weeks ago had been Rose's bat mitzvah, a day his mother repeatedly reminded Mordecai of as it approached. She was too proud to ask, but it was clear in her words she expected him to attend his sister's aliyah, an emphasis on the importance of her transition into adulthood, especially as the youngest child. The tom never admitted his intention to skip it to avoid confrontation, simply not showing up for the service as he hadn't for the five months beforehand.

He did, however, attend the celebratory reception, coming in late to avoid notice and tracking down Rose as swiftly as he could, who confirmed she was just happy to see him even if he'd missed the service. He'd handed over his gift - an ornate, monogrammed box containing a number of pencils with various granite grades, to encourage her artistry - and had tolerated the vice-like embrace it garnered, before he'd excused himself and made to leave.

Mordecai had hoped to leave unhindered, but was caught at the door by Nataliya. Their exchange was polite but short; an acknowledgement of his absence from Sabbath services, a polite query of her health and a return answer of his own. He didn't promise to speak with her again as he made his excuses to leave either, hoping continued absences would unravel the matchmaking their parents initiated years ago as he slipped back out into the street.

"Mordecai Issac Heller, you stop this instant."

Use of his full name stopped him in his tracks immediately, sending a potent shot of adrenaline through his body as he turned to face his scowling mother. She approached with an irrefutable fury that raised the hackles on his neck, even as he set his lips into a firm frown and met her gaze without a hint of fear, though his ears betrayed his true emotions and folded flat to his skull with shame.

"Where were you?" She demanded in an unnecessarily loud tone, considering she was barely feet from her son. There's no need to elaborate on the question; she's referring to the Sabbath service that morning. When he doesn't answer, she continues regardless, attracting the unwitting attention of numerous passersby. "You knew Rose had her reading, you know how important it is, and you don't bother to show up?"

She got closer, forced to glare up at the son who'd grown to an easy four inches taller than his mother, not that he could appreciate that extra height when being berated. He felt like a naughty child. "People are whispering, Mordecai. They're not asking if you're okay, they're spreading rechilus about you and your chutzpah. Our faith is becoming a joke to your congregation because you don't show your face!"

He opened his mouth, but was immediately shut down by a warning hiss. Mordecai swallowed and struggled to maintain his composure, acutely aware of a gathering crowd of both strangers and congregation members. "Don't you dare make those same excuses. Don't you dare think I'm going to let it slide again," she'd chastised. "I want the truth, bachur. What's so important, you can't even make it to your sister's Bat Mitzvah? What is more important than your faith?"

Mordecai's mouth was dry. Even if he wanted to tell her, he couldn't at that moment, not with so many people waiting in earnest for his response. Emotions threatening to rampage under his skin, he'd taken a deep breath, briefly closed his eyes to compose himself, then answered the demand with the same excuse as usual. "I've been busy, moth-"

The slap has been so hard, it snapped his head to the side, echoing in the suddenly silent street as onlookers gasped or held their hands to their mouths. Too stunned to speak, his habitual lies knocked right out of his mouth, he couldn't move for a number of seconds. Only as his cheek began to throb and he raised a hand to his hot flesh had he managed to look back to his mother, who had a mixture of fury and anguish twisting her features, thick tears magnified by her pince nez.

"Your father would be ashamed of you."

Mordecai hasn't tried to speak to his mother or sisters since then. His Sundays are lonely and long, as are his waits between assignments, an empty void the tuxedo has taken to sleeping through even though it makes him hard to rouse for work. It's becoming increasingly difficult to distract himself through conscious engagement, his plants the only thing he reliably waters, as they cannot care for themselves.

Now he's here, in need of semi-urgent medical assistance and under armed guard after killing a co-worker, revenge for the path he placed the young tuxedo on years prior, even if he's aware Fiores isn't to blame for his troubles. Mordecai gained no satisfaction from taking his life either, but still feels less tense somehow, possibly because it was one less bastard in the world to corrupt another desperate child.

He sits on the floor with his left leg splayed awkwardly in front of him, leaning against the wall with his head tilted back against flaking plaster. The cool compress held to his swollen face has long since gone warm, but he remains still, eyes closed to lessen the throbbing in his head, breathing shallowly as each inhale makes his ribs ache.

Despite his injuries, sitting on the filthy floor and a growing restlessness deep in his core, the most disconcerting thing remains the gun aimed at his forehead. Other than to hand him a compress, the enforcers haven't spoken to or tried to approach Mordecai since he sat down, a nervous air about them whenever they work near his still frame to clean up Fiores' mangled body. A blessing, certainly; he has nothing to say that was not already expressed to Fiore himself.

Mordecai supposes he can't blame them; in only six years, he graduated from a laughably frightened boy to a torturer and murderer. Even though they encouraged those ruthless tendencies with their goading, perhaps they didn't think the little Jewish boy was capable of such atrocities. But that's their failure, not his; molded by treatment and opportunity, Mordecai doesn't regret a second, the blood on his hands as much a part of him as his now wretched soul.

Exhaustion pulls at the tuxedo tom, but he fights it tooth and claw, not trusting his company to resist putting a bullet in his head as he sleeps. Though if Savage condones it, he'll die in this grimy backroom content the money he's left behind will at least see his family moved to better rented housing.

Mother can hate him forever if she wants to; so long as his sacrifices weren't for nought, Mordecai can die happy.

#niche narratives #hurricane heller #mordecai heller #lackadaisy #fanfiction #lackadaisy cats #lackadaisy mordecai #fanfic #tracy j butler #no beta we die like atlas may #send help

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